


Afraid of Being Alone

by Mackem



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even now, with Porthos pressed against him, solid and present, he can see the way Aramis’ eyes keep darting over him, can feel the skittering touch of his hand, as if he cannot convince himself that he is really safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afraid of Being Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).



> This follows on from the end of episode 3 of series one, because Aramis and Porthos walk off together, so they're blatantly going to Aramis' lodgings to screw. I mean, _obviously_. Endless thanks to the lovely [Dairyme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/pseuds/dairyme) for acting as beta, even though this was ostensibly for her! Any mistakes remaining are my own.

“I _did_ frighten you.”

“Did you, indeed?” says Aramis. He has his arm settled companionably around Porthos’ waist, keeping him close and steadying him as they walk to his quarters. Porthos no longer requires help remaining upright, but he says nothing. He suspects it would make no difference to Aramis.

“You were terrified,” he says instead, smiling into the night. “I could tell.”

“Could you?”

“You stank of fear. I could see it in your eyes,” Porthos insists. Aramis guides him around a puddle as they turn down the alley that leads to his home; ordinarily, Porthos would not stand to be treated like some wilting flower, but it has been a long couple of days, and he cannot find the energy to protest at Aramis’ insistence upon being a gentleman. Instead, he nudges him sharply in the ribs and says, “It was like looking at a frightened little boy.”

“Was it really?” Aramis asks, mulish despite his pleasant manner. “And here I was, thinking I was merely putting on a show while you bellowed death threats at me. I wasn’t aware I was channelling some innocent time from my youth.”

“I didn’t mention innocence,” Porthos grins. “I don’t believe you were _ever_ innocent, Aramis. I’ll bet you smirked before you smiled.”

Aramis laughs, the sound clear and comforting. It seems to wrap around him, warmer than any cloak against the chill of the night air. “What a past you must imagine I have! You must share it with me, one of these days.”

“I don’t care about your past. I care about your present,” Porthos shrugs. The movement pulls uncomfortably at his stitches, and he cannot hide his wince. Aramis tuts his displeasure. His hand moves from his waist to settle at his shoulder, light but soothing. Porthos grins at him. “And your _presence_.”

“Very witty,” Aramis chuckles, and carefully disentangles himself from Porthos. They have reached his rooms. He fishes the key from some secret pocket as he shakes his head, apparently amused by Porthos’ way with words. “Well done. We’ll make a writer of you yet.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Porthos scoffs. Immediately he pictures piles of dusty paper, puddles of ink, and himself in the midst of it, bored beyond sense. “I know where I belong. Don’t be so quick to get rid of me,” he murmurs, his tone deliberately teasing. Aramis takes the bait; he looks over his shoulder at him as he turns the key in the lock, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Get _rid_ \- Porthos, if I wanted rid of you, do you truly think I would bother to stitch up -”

“ - Got you,” Porthos interrupts with a devious smile, and steps into Aramis’ space as he turns around. He takes advantage of Aramis’ surprise, pushing him back to press him up against the door, slotting their hips together without a care for who may be watching. These past couple of days have been too hard for Porthos to deny himself a little comfort in the presence of his friend just because somebody might _see_. “It’s not like you to be so easily fooled,” he murmurs, spreading his legs to cage his friend in. Pinned against his own door with hands at his shoulders, Aramis’ indignance melts into amusement.

“Your jokes are hard enough to detect at the best of times,” he says with a chuckle. “Forgive me for not seeing the humour in the idea of you leaving me. Not when I’ve just spent far too long praying that I can stop that happening.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Porthos assures him, his voice a low rumble. Now they are all safely back in Paris, with his shoulder stitched up and in no danger of bleeding out, and better yet, with Bonnaire spirited away towards his well-deserved retribution, Porthos has begun to put these events behind him. Aramis, it seems, is not having the same success. He has barely let Porthos out of his sight since the axe blade was buried in his flesh, and while he is always free with affection, there is more to his increased closeness and the frequent touches of his hand than mere fondness. 

Even now, with Porthos pressed against him, solid and present, he can see the way Aramis’ eyes keep darting over him, can feel the skittering touch of his hand, as if he cannot convince himself that he is really safe. “Aramis, look at me,” he orders, and smiles as the other man meets his gaze. “I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere. I know where I belong,” he says again, and grins as Aramis nods. His hands settle at Porthos’ waist.

“As you say,” he murmurs, his voice fond.

“And I know where _you_ belong, too,” Porthos adds. Aramis smiles lazily as Porthos leans closer, their lips not quite brushing.

“And where might that be?” he breathes.

“Beneath me,” Porthos smirks, and Aramis’ laugh bounces off the stone around them.

“You have to catch me, first,” he says, eyes sparkling. He opens the door and steps back with it, laughing as Porthos stumbles after him.

Porthos steadies himself against the door frame and watches him light a candle, blinking in the sudden bloom of light. “I’ve never had trouble catching you yet. I caught you just this evening, didn’t I?” he says pointedly. “It wasn’t too hard to get hold of you, even with your sword drawn.”

“Ah yes, I was meaning to ask about that,” Aramis says thoughtfully. He turns back to Porthos with the candle in hand, and grandly gestures for him to enter as he casts his hat aside. “Perhaps if I say that you screaming an intention to kill me directly into my face gave me pause, maybe you’ll admit that you took more pleasure than you ought in pushing me around?”

“I’ve got no problem admitting that,” Porthos grins as he steps inside. He closes the door after himself, glad to be alone with his friend at last. “I relished it, even. It was well-deserved revenge for you punching me in the face.”

“I didn’t punch you in the face!” Aramis retorts. He puts the candle down beside his bed and sets about relieving himself of his hat and coat, a devious smile at his lips. “How dare you suggest such a thing!”

Porthos merely watches him, eyebrow raised. Aramis moves with fluid grace, whether he is stripping himself or taking arms against criminals, and Porthos will take any opportunity to drink him in. “I know I was punched, Aramis,” he says, as he watches his shirt flutter to the floor. 

“Oh, I’m not denying that. Merely my involvement in it. I had _Athos_ punch you in the face,” Aramis says, eyes sparkling as he tugs his boots off. “I laid hands upon you only to heal.”

“You know, I don’t think I thanked you for that,” Porthos frowns. His mind whirls back, trying to recall if the words passed his lips. Aramis blinks as he straightens up, the Queen’s token of favour bouncing off his bare chest as he moves.

“Didn’t you?”

“I don’t think so. Not in any real fashion,” Porthos murmurs. “Perhaps when I was intoxicated and half-mad with pain, but not since then. What kind of companion am I?” 

Aramis offers him a small smile. “One I hold in the highest regard. No more thanks are necessary, my friend.”

“Like hell they’re not!” Porthos growls. He crosses the floor and Aramis does the same, stepping into his arms as Porthos pulls him close. Their lips meet in an instant, parting with a soft sigh as Aramis sends Porthos’ hat flying across the room and buries a hand in his hair, almost clinging. Porthos runs his fingers over Aramis’ bare back, licking into his mouth with a desperation he has held down for the last two days. It bubbles over now, as they stand twined together, safe and close in the dim light of Aramis’ room. “I owe you my life,” Porthos whispers, and presses his lips against Aramis’ forehead and cheeks. “Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.”

“Once is enough,” Aramis murmurs in return, and pulls away just far enough to offer him a small grin. His hands move endlessly over Porthos, stroking his cheek, down his neck, to press over his chest and settle at his hips. Porthos smiles indulgently; after a moment, Aramis leans in for a heated kiss.

Minutes pass as they embrace, ridding themselves of their anger and frustration and _fear_ as they finally take the chance to relax. Wine has dulled the pain in his shoulder to manageable levels, and Porthos can feel the weight of the last couple of days floating away as Aramis guides his head back and sucks a possessive mark into the flesh of his throat. “Aramis,” he hisses, and absently attempts to divest himself of his jacket. Aramis stops him with a pointed grasp of his arms, and slips out of Porthos’ hold to stand behind him.

“Stop, you’ll tear my needlework again. Let me help,” he says. Firm hands brush aside Porthos’ own and carefully work the thick leather from his shoulders. He winces at the dull throb of pain and Aramis’ lips press soothingly against his neck, murmuring apologies and brushing kisses against the line of his throat.

“No apologies,” Porthos says with a smile. “Not from you. I’d take them from the bastard that buried his axe in my shoulder, but not from you.” He drops his jacket to the floor; his shirt follows with the help of Aramis’ deft fingers. He bends to remove his boots, and winces immediately at the dull pain from his stitches.

“I said stop! Just stop moving entirely.” Aramis circles back around him to press another teasing kiss to his lips, then gets to his knees with a groan.

“Are you quite certain _you_ don’t need help?” Porthos laughs. He runs his fingers through Aramis’ hair, tugging fondly the way Aramis likes. “Are you feeling your age, old man?”

“My age is all I’ll be feeling in future if you continue to say such things,” Aramis scoffs. He helpfully takes hold of Porthos’ boots so he can step out of them. His breeches are next; light fingers run down his belly, nails scratching just so, before they untangle the knot of his laces and the leather is inched down his thighs. Porthos kicks them aside, but Aramis does not get to his feet. Instead he moves closer still, pressing his lips to the taut flesh of Porthos’ lower belly and kissing lightly. The scratch of his beard against his skin is maddening, as ever.

“Aramis,” he murmurs.

“Porthos,” is the reply, whispered against the curve of his hip, teeth scraping at his skin. Fingers slide into his underwear, not tugging, merely settling there as Aramis ghosts his lips over the line of his stiffening cock through the material. Porthos swallows.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“It’s been a long couple of days. You’re tired. You should rest.”

“I know,” Aramis says again. He looks up at Porthos, eyes dark as he smiles softly. “I might be tired, but you almost died.”

“We _are_ musketeers,” Porthos reminds him with a dry smile. “Facing down our death is hardly uncommon, for us.”

“Facing my own mortality is fine,” Aramis murmurs. He inches Porthos’ underwear down his thighs and presses wet, heated kisses against his prick. “Facing _yours_ is always unpleasant. Allow me this? Please?”

“I’m not exactly about to refuse,” Porthos chuckles. He strokes Aramis’ hair, dark, tousled strands soft beneath the callouses of his fingers.

“I need to remind myself that you live,” he says softly; the sweetness of his sentiment is cut when his lips close briefly around the head of his cock to suck for just a moment. “And this always does the trick.”

“Oh, well, if it’ll help you, by all means,” Porthos grins, “Have at me!”

Aramis is talented, certainly, but more than that; he knows Porthos well. He has studied Porthos with intent, done his best to discover how best to bring him to the brink of climax with nothing more than a lazy swirl of his tongue and a careful stroke of his hand. So often their trysts are hurried; frantic tumbles in each other’s beds, or pressed into dark, secluded corners, over almost before they begin simply through sheer need. 

Not so tonight.

He takes his time, and Porthos is willing to allow him all the time he needs. He prefers his friend – his brother-in-arms, his partner, his fellow musketeer; Aramis is all this and more – in good cheer and wearing his usual easy smile. He allows Aramis to do as he likes without chasing his own pleasure; as tempting as it is to hold him in place and push greedily into that wicked mouth, much as Aramis usually groans and urges him onward, this is not what his friend needs. Porthos stills himself, slows his breathing, and relaxes into the attention Aramis is devoting upon him.

His mouth is slick, lips swollen when eventually, after long minutes of teasing licks and wet kisses, he draws Porthos into his mouth. His cheeks hollow around his length as he sucks, shadows dancing across his face in the candlelight, leaving his features unnaturally sharp. One arm is wrapped around Porthos’ thigh, as if he truly thinks Porthos might leave him at any moment; the other hand cups his balls, rolling their weight restlessly in his fingers. His eyes have fluttered closed, eyelashes fanned against his cheeks as if Aramis wants only to focus on the taste and feel of him in his mouth, and Porthos finds himself entranced at the sight he makes. He keeps a hand tangled in his hair and lets the other cup his cheek, thumb brushing softly at his lips as he is drawn between them with slow bobs of Aramis’ head.

“You are beautiful, my friend,” he murmurs, “And I am here with you.”

Aramis produces a broken sound at that. His eyes open, dark and anguished in the dim light, so Porthos smiles down at him, and tugs lightly at his hair. “I’m close,” he confesses, biting his lip, and delights in the way Aramis settles immediately, his eyes shining. He strokes his cheek lightly. “I can’t last much longer. If you don’t want to…”

Aramis does not pull away. If anything, he takes Porthos further into his mouth, tongue flattening beneath his length as his hand moves from his balls to wrap around the base of his cock. Fingers fist around his slick flesh and suddenly there is just the barest, teasing hint of teeth as he is drawn between his lips and oh, that is too much. Porthos spills into his welcoming mouth with a low cry, his fingers tight enough in Aramis’ hair that it must surely hurt, but no complaint is forthcoming. He swallows Porthos’ seed with barely a grimace, licking his lips to catch what little he has missed.

“Thank you,” Porthos manages after a moment. His legs are weak, suddenly, and he sits gratefully on Aramis’ bed with a grin. Aramis smiles up at him, fussily wiping his mouth.

“Is that for my saving your life again?” he asks with an arch of his eyebrow. “Or my ministrations?”

“Both,” laughs Porthos. “I don’t know which I’m more grateful for.”

“That had better be a comment on my oral skill, and not on the worthlessness of your life,” Aramis sniffs. Porthos gives him a tired grin, and crooks a finger pointedly.

“Come here,” he demands, and watches Aramis get to his feet. He reaches out to grasp his belt and uses it to drag Aramis close, settling him between his spread legs, shameless in his nudity. He pulls his belt free and flings it across the room as Aramis laughs softly. Porthos palms at his dick through the leather of his breeches, gratified to feel he is hard merely through the act of pleasuring him, but Aramis wraps a hand around his wrist to stop him even as he groans.

“Wait,” he murmurs. “I want to check your wound.”

“And I want to get you off,” Porthos says, his voice a low rumble. His hand presses closer, drawing a gasp from Aramis. “Which would you prefer?”

“To check your wound,” Aramis says firmly. He steps away from Porthos despite his obvious reluctance, and gestures at the bed. “Lie down, please.”

“I have faith in your work,” Porthos huffs.

“And I am delighted to hear it, but I want to see what damage has been done. Please,” he adds, after a moment. “To reassure me, Porthos, please.”

“You mother hen,” Porthos grumbles, but affection laces his words. He willingly lays himself down for his friend, his limbs tired but careful as he anticipates further warnings not to strain his wound. He grins as his backside is straddled, and lies still at the light touch to his shoulder.

“It’s a miracle,” Aramis murmurs eventually. “Your stitches have held. Is it painful?”

“Less than it was,” Porthos allows. “The wine has helped. And your mouth, of course.”

“Don’t get too used to that,” Aramis says. He shifts off Porthos with a final squeeze of his uninjured shoulder. “I won’t be dropping to my knees to relieve you from just any old injury.”

“Whatever you say,” Porthos chuckles. He moves as quickly as his stitches will allow, now Aramis seems to be content with his recovery; he rolls over and pushes Aramis onto his back, propping himself up with his good arm and pinning him with the other pressed over his shoulders. Aramis blinks up at Porthos’ grin, surprised and amused in equal measure. “You see,” Porthos says, smug in his victory, “I said you belonged under me, didn’t I? _And_ that I could catch you easily.”

Aramis laughs at him, the sound warm and fond. “You say it as if I didn’t want to be caught. So what will you do with me, now you have me?”

“Not as much as I’d like, in my current state,” Porthos mock-sighs, with a frown that soon melts away into a smirk. Aramis makes a beautiful sight in the candlelight, shirtless and pliant beneath him, and Porthos cannot stop himself from pressing a kiss to those welcoming lips.

“You don’t have to do a thing,” Aramis murmurs against his lips. “You need rest.”

“I’m not old and feeble,” Porthos says with a laugh. He pulls away just enough to slide his hand down Aramis’ chest, tweaking a nipple as he goes to hear him groan. Porthos may be weary from both trials and travel, he may have drunk more than his share of wine, but his fingers are still clever enough to unfasten the laces of his trousers and work their way inside. They wrap around his hard cock and stroke, thumb seeking out the head to smear slickness beneath his touch. Aramis groans, his hips rocking up as his eyes close.

“You could at least allow me to remove my breeches,” he complains idly. “Or am I to come in them like a virgin during his first awkward fumble?”

“Like the innocent boy you never were,” Porthos grins.

He knows Aramis’ body as well as his own, by now; knows how to play him like an instrument, how to go from a simple, light melody to a roaring crescendo. He does not waste time teasing today. Instead he closes his fingers around his length and strokes, long and hard, as he leans close to draw him into a kiss. Their tongues twine as Aramis plants his heels into the mattress and rocks needily into his touch, one arm wrapped around Porthos, fingers clinging to his flesh as if to keep him in place. Porthos feels nails dig into his skin as he pinches first one nipple, then the other, delighting in the way Aramis’ gasps and arches his back. The reaction is yet more pleasing when he replaces his fingers with his teeth, biting both nipples just sharply enough to make Aramis whine and fist the bedsheets.

He comes with Porthos’ name on his lips, a low cry lost in the night, dark eyes squeezed shut as Porthos whispers, “I will never leave you,” against his throat.

Porthos watches him with a smile as Aramis calms himself, the slowing rise and fall of his chest hypnotic. Eventually, without opening his eyes, Aramis grins and murmurs sleepily, “Are you aware you’re staring at me?”

“You’d stare too, if you could see the sight you make,” Porthos retorts, and leans down to press a kiss to his parted lips.

“I’m not sure I like the look of myself well enough for that.”

“You bloody well _do_ ,” Porthos snorts, and withdraws his hand to wipe it carelessly on the sheets.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Aramis grumbles, voice thick with sleep. He lets Porthos guide his trousers off without lifting a finger to help, and curls into the welcome press of Porthos’ body, clearly seeking sleep. “First thing tomorrow.”

“I won’t be awake first thing tomorrow,” Porthos murmurs, and presses a kiss against his hair. He settles a possessive hand around his friend, holding him close. “I reckon we’ve earned a lie in. I’ll clean them up,” he promises. Aramis shifts comfortably.

“Good.”

“But only after we mess them up a little bit more,” says Porthos lightly.

“ _Good_ ,” Aramis chuckles, and speaks no more.

Porthos stares at the ceiling with a tired grin playing at his lips until sleep takes him, warm, and whole, and safe.


End file.
